


The Boy Who Lived

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2015 [20]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Gen, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Series, Post-War, Squibs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So many things are over; the war's end is just a detail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy Who Lived

**Author's Note:**

> Day 20 of the Advent Calendar Drabbles for 2015. Today's prompt is from aut0 (aka my dad), who requested "Harry Potter: The boy who LIVED", and no other guidance. 
> 
> This is also for all of you who yelled and rent your clothing in the comments to the previous Socks and Malteasers story, which was all doom and gloom and Sherlock spiraling down into drug addiction while Hermione marched off to war. See what happens when you yell at me in comments? Not only do you make my day, but you get more fic. (This is a very bad lesson, btw, please don't try this with other authors.)

The war had been over for two weeks by the time Sherlock heard of Voldemort’s death.

 

There were still intermittent skirmishes, of course – there always were.  But they were scattered, disorganized, the last efforts of a few frightened Death Eaters, none of whom really wanted to take the mantle Voldemort had left empty, and it didn’t take much to bring them in, cowed and cowering. 

 

Sherlock was aware of none of it.  He’d open his eyes to a room that was both bleary and bright, see Mycroft or his mother sitting on the chair, reading and waiting, and then he’d close them up again and sleep as if that would make the headache and heartache disappear.

 

(“You’re going to die.”)

 

It was never anyone else.  It would never _be_ anyone else, ever again, no matter how much Sherlock wished he’d wake and see his father sitting there.  Just Mycroft and his mother in turn. 

 

Mycroft read the paper, words scattered across the pages.  Sherlock could make out some of them, sometimes.  _Dementers on the Run…. Azkaban Reopened… The Boy Who Lived… Weasley to Be… The Boy Who…_

 

The sunshine pouring into his bedroom made everything glow uncomfortably.  It reminded him of the way the lights of Tottenham Court Road shimmered and shined and shot out like starlight, how magic had been electric blue and fizzed like Muggle soda under his skin.  Except _this_ glow wasn’t artificial; it was real, as real as the magic Sherlock couldn’t feel without chemical assistance.  As real as the soft cotton sheets in which he cocooned himself, as real as the dark burnt circle, about the size of a man standing, that marked the front lawn.

 

(“Don’t. You. Dare.”)

 

Sherlock wasn’t going to think about that circle.  Wasn’t going to think about the way the grass had burned black in a matter of moments, wasn’t going to remember the way the drugs in his veins had let him see the magic as it fizzled out, twisting and shrieking and glowing so brightly it’d hurt to open his eyes for days.

 

(“He’s not worth the bother.”)

 

He’d think about sunlight streaming through his window, instead.  Plain sunlight; yellow and thin.  Unadorned by the magic he couldn’t see without the drugs in his system.

 

Plain. Simple. 

 

 _Boring_.

 

The summer sun was bright and warm, though the little room was comfortable – Mummy had always been very good at cooling charms.  Sherlock could still feel the thin layer of sweat from withdrawal on his brow when he opened his eyes.  The figure sitting on the chair near the window wasn’t the same as Mycroft, or Mummy.  It wasn’t anyone Sherlock rightly recognized. 

 

(“You’ll be dead in a week anyway.”)

 

It didn’t matter.  He closed his eyes.

 

“Oh, no,” said Hermione Granger, and her voice was tight and high and thick, as if she’d been crying.  “I know you’re awake, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Sleeping,” said Sherlock, and felt the thump on his arm.  “ _Ow_ , you’d hit an ill man?”

 

“No, but I’d hit you,” scoffed Hermione. 

 

*

 

Hermione didn’t ask why he was ill.

 

She didn’t ask about his father or the why Mycroft was working ‘round the clock at the Ministry or the dark circle in the grass on the front lawn.

 

But that was fair.

 

Sherlock didn’t ask why she wore long sleeves when it was so warm outside.

 

He didn’t ask about her parents or Australia or where she’d been the previous year.

 

Instead she came nearly every day, for a few minutes or a few hours, and they sat together, first in Sherlock’s room, and then in the lounge, and finally in the garden, where the gnomes were busily going about their business, setting up housekeeping in the bushes and arguing amongst themselves. 

 

(Mummy had cared about the gnome infestation once.)

 

The garden was overflowing with flowers and memories.  Magic, too, since that was the only way to have a proper garden anymore, or so Mummy said.  Not that Sherlock could feel the magic now, but he could see what it wrought, and one didn’t need _magic_ to remember things.

 

Hermione had found two lounge chairs, and settled herself down on one, trusting Sherlock to settle himself on the other.  He did, eventually, not wanting to disturb the ghosts of gardens past that were still filling the space in his head.

 

(“Sherlock, go into the house.”

 

“I’m not afraid of them.”

 

“Go into the house _now_.”)

 

Hermione saw none of it.  She talked, and played with her hair, and behind her, the grass was long and soft and welcoming.  The sky was a brilliant blue, the sunshine was warm and yellow, and the bees buzzed around the bushes, lazy and drunk on nectar.

 

(“Bees don’t drink nectar, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, five years old.)

 

(“My son is not an _infestation_!” Averil Holmes roared.  “He is my _son_.”)

 

“It’s not a terrible idea,” worried Hermione.  They’d been talking for a while; Sherlock barely paid attention.  There was a breeze in the garden; it kept lifting her hair as she played with it, trying to tame it into a French braid.  “It would just be… _strange_ , going back.”

 

“What if you didn’t live in the castle?” asked Sherlock, watching as a gnome mother scolded her offspring.  “Just Floo’ed in for classes and then went home?”

 

Hermione paused.  “I’m not sure I can get permission to link Mum and Dad up to the network.”

 

Sherlock glanced at her.  “Excuses.”

 

Hermione fiddled with the end of her braid.  “I was thinking… maybe not Hogwarts again.  Maybe…”  She took a breath.  “Mum and Dad… they want me to go to uni.  I think… they just want me close, for a little while.”

 

The gnome mother was kissing her children now, one by one, before throwing them back into the open field to play. 

 

(“Your son is an aberration – a mistake – a _freak_!  Look at him, doped and delirious.  If you aren’t brave enough to put him out of his misery, Averil – we _will_.”

 

Averil held out his wand and stood his ground. “Don’t. You. _Dare_.”)

 

“You should,” said Sherlock, the words choking him.  He shook the memory off.  “D’you have your levels?”

 

Hermione looked as if she was contemplating chewing her braid.  “I could.  The Ministry is… well, they’re willing to work something out for me.  I could start classes in the fall.”

 

Sherlock nodded, his throat still hurting too much to speak.  His throat, his muscles, his skin.  He ached and sparked and everything in the garden was bright white and yellow, the hottest center of a matchstick flame.

 

(A sharp peal of laughter.  “What, Averil, giving your life for your waste of a squibby son?  He doesn’t even care if he lives or dies – look at him!  D’you think he’s so high he won’t remember watching his father die?”)

 

“I thought… Cambridge,” said Hermione, and Sherlock didn’t want to hear anymore, didn’t want to remember anymore.  “With you.”

 

“I won’t be there,” said Sherlock shortly, and stumbled into the house.

 

Hermione didn’t come after him.

 

*

 

She didn’t come back for three days.

 

*

 

The next time Sherlock stumbled down to the kitchen, because he couldn’t ignore the aching, empty feeling in his stomach any longer, he found Mycroft sitting at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper.

 

Mycroft glanced at him, and said nothing.  He kept reading, turning the paper this way and that to follow the words that were placed at all angles.  The pictures were stationary; sometimes, if Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, he thought he could see a picture wink at him, from the corner of his eye – but it was probably wishful thinking.

 

Or his imagination.

 

(Not anything else.  Not since that night in the back garden.  Not ever again.)

 

There was toast and honey on the counter.  Sherlock was about to take his slices and go back upstairs when Mycroft spoke.

 

“There’s to be a memorial next week.”

 

Sherlock stopped walking.  He could see the article on the front page now, as Mycroft held the paper aloft.  _The Boy Who Lived to Dedicate Ministry Memorial_.  A picture, too, of Harry, looking tired and worn and solemn.  Even if Sherlock could see him move, he probably wouldn’t have been smiling.

 

“Are you going to be on it?” asked Sherlock snidely.

 

“Father will be.”

 

Sherlock stared at the picture.  At the stubble on Harry’s chin.  At the length of his hair.  At the glasses that were just a bit too small, as if he hadn’t had time to replace his childhood glasses with grown-up ones.

 

 _The Boy Who Lived_.

 

“He’ll be a hundred years old,” said Sherlock, staring at the picture.  “And he’ll always be the boy who lived.  It doesn’t matter what else he does.  That’s what it’ll say in his obituary.  The _boy_ who lived.”

 

Mycroft folded the paper and set it down, so that the article was still visible.  He couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“He’ll never escape it,” continued Sherlock. 

 

“He could leave the Wizarding world,” said Mycroft.

 

“And go to _what_?” sneered Sherlock.  “He might have started life as a Muggle, but I know as well as you do – he never found happiness in that world.”

 

(“You’re going to die,” he said, flat face leaning over Sherlock on the grass, breath soft and sweet and sharp.  He wasn’t a man – he was a ghost, a vision, a snake in wizard’s clothing.  The smoke was still rising from the newly formed black circle on the grass where Averil Holmes had stood only a moment before. “In a week, or perhaps two.  You’re nearly there already.”)

 

“He’ll never escape it,” said Sherlock again, staring at the picture of Harry Potter.  “He’ll always be the boy who lived.”

 

(“I present to you – the squib who lived to see his father die, because he was too blind to see the truth.  He isn’t part of this world – he never will be.  Better that he should die than live in misery as a Muggle,” said Voldemort, and Sherlock felt his heart stop beating.)

 

“He’ll be a hundred and one, and that’s the first line in his obituary,” said Sherlock, his voice slowing, Mycroft’s emotionless eyes watching him carefully.

 

(And then the thing straightened, and turned back to his followers.  “He’s not worth the bother of killing – he’ll kill himself, given enough of what he craves.”)

 

“The Boy Who Lived,” said Sherlock, every word spoken with care.

 

(The packet fell on the grass by Sherlock’s feet, white powder and a syringe.  He heard them laughing as they popped away, scent of wet earth and burnt flesh together.)

 

“Yes,” said Mycroft.  But there was a smile on his lips, as if already knew what Sherlock was thinking. 

 

*

 

He can see Hermione on the other side of the library.  She’s already taken up a table, surrounded by books, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she’s laughing with someone Sherlock recognizes from their chemistry course. 

 

For a quiet, brief moment – Sherlock can imagine it. 

 

_Grey uniforms under black robes.  Owls flying overhead, cats stalking pet rats around corners.  Glittering jewels in four vials in the Great Hall, and suits of armor guarding the doors.  A green-and-silver tie at his throat, scrolls and quills and a wand in his back pocket._

Sunlight streams in through the high windows; the girls at the end of the hall stifle their giggles, and Hermione glances up and sees Sherlock waiting.

 

She grins.  It’s as clear an invitation as anything.

 

No.

 

This isn’t Hogwarts.

 

Sherlock holds his books close to his chest, and starts the long walk down to take his place at Hermione’s table.

 

This is better.

 


End file.
